


do what pleases you, while you can

by Taro_Tea



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (They get the holiday they deserve), Biting, Episode Fix-It: s01e06 Rare Species, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Go To The Coast, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Pillow Talk, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Post-Canon, Post-Coital Cuddling, Scenting, Slice of Life, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Strength Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23500285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taro_Tea/pseuds/Taro_Tea
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier finally get to that long-awaited coast with their patchwork family, and it's nothing short of perfect. Fish, seaweed, honey cakes and all. And those private, low tide inlets...they come in handy for two traveling companions who finally have some peace.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 24
Kudos: 314





	do what pleases you, while you can

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MsThunderFrost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsThunderFrost/gifts).



“Well? Are you happy, in this place? The peace, the sun?” He wiggles his toes into the damp sand, pushing it into pleasing little furrows of tiny glimmering rocks and eroded seaglass. “The lack of general gloom?” 

His companion opens his mouth - closes it again, ducking his head in a way that Jaskier has come to interpret as embarrassment. “Roach likes it here.” 

“ _Aw_ , I’m glad you do.” Jaskier bumps into his side affectionately, and Geralt goes back to gathering kelp from the rocks caked in almost white sand, with a new tiny upturn to his lips. 

It’s true, although not the finest of evasions. Roach is treated like royalty down on these southern isles, where Geralt packed them off to; cooling her legs in the brackish water that pools over the coarse sand, being doted on even more than she typically is. The sea air does them all good. Some of them more than others - Geralt’s tanning a wonderful golden hue all over, Ciri's managed to get away with some sight redness, while he’s busy covering himself and his scores of new freckles for fear of more stinging burns in all of the loose shirts and scraps of old ones tied around his face that he can gather. He’s had a good nursemaid in the form of his witcher, at least - smoothing chamomile over his skin gently in the cool relief of their small house and taking the opportunity to return some earlier favours, to great mutual satisfaction.

They’re out of sight, behind the shelf of rocks that he’d sat on earlier to enjoy the less aggressive morning sun, watching Geralt cut through the high tide like some kind of silvery arrow under the smooth mantle of water while he composed. Barely coming up to breathe, using all of his strength to beat back the might of the sea - inspiring a few new songs and some southern rushing of blood in his audience of one.

“Want some?” Geralt holds up a handful of dillisk, and he takes it happily. His tastes have broadened - in more ways than one - since meeting his witcher. Julian Alfred Pankratz wouldn’t have chewed down on salty, vegetal plants cut fresh from their fronds, leaving plenty of root behind for regrowth. Jaskier the bard, companion of a witcher - 

“That’s a good one.” He swallows, holds his hand out expectantly, and Geralt snorts in what he knows to be affection before handing him another red clump, rinsed of seawater and sand with his fresh waterskin. “Thanks, Geralt.”

There’s a great many things he takes pleasure in, now, that would never have crossed the clean and paved path he once walked. 

It’s clear as the unmuddied water that it satisfies Geralt; providing, protecting - and marking, of course. Being a carer for all of them. Something basic and instinctual that he’s all too happy to indulge, when the fulfillment of those instincts lends itself to a relaxed, easygoing witcher with his head up, eyes bright and a definite lack of a sour puss he'd never really enjoyed seeing, familiar as it was. 

The sound of the waves and wind rushing through trees quiets suddenly, when they step around the rock formation into an inlet. Worn by time and the relentless natures of the waves, smooth and home to small darting fish. Geralt stands from his crouch, water dripping from his hands in a sun-glittering trail as he unclasps the leather pouch from his hip and offers it to Jaskier before touching it himself. The water’s clean, fresh and surprisingly cool on his throat, and he hands it back with the taste of brook and purity in his mouth. And he watches, when Geralt lifts it to his lips as he walks on, lets the remainder trail down from the sides of his mouth and drip over his jaw - and his mouth dries all over again. 

It’s rather private, in this little alcove. 

He barely keeps the excited quiver from his voice, the telltale tremble his witcher will notice in seconds. He’s probably already caught the waft of this particular mood in the upwind, tasting the familiar burn in the air. 

“Geralt?” 

“Hm?” 

He picks up his pace, jogs the last few steps, and jumps. His witcher catches him easily, one strong arm under his arse and the other at his back. 

“Eager,” Geralt comments wryly, and he nods with an unrepentant grin.

“Want to lie down?” He lifts his eyebrows in a quick little jig, and Geralt shakes his head, water dripping off his hair. He’ll need to wash that out later, perhaps use some of the oils to battle the rough, dry texture of it from the harsh salt. Not that he minds that task, of course. Running his hands through Geralt’s hair in any context isn’t much of a hardship. 

His breath leaves in a quick rush when Geralt presses him against a hard surface, heated through the thin fabric of his shirt. The rock, an almost flawless outcrop of it that he molds to easily, lets his shoulders relax back against.

“The sand itches on your skin.” Geralt mumbles into the hollow of this throat, lips moving over jumping muscle and the soft swell of his breath. “You’d be uncomfortable.” 

Almost smooth, sun-warm stone at his back - and Geralt, just as solid at his front and underneath him, hoisting him up. On level for him to push in, fuck him good, and Jaskier’s heart jumps - and then _higher_ , settling with his cock at Geralt’s face; and elevated so much, he would feel terrified if he were in the arms of anyone else. Right up on Geralt’s broad shoulders, tall enough to see the edges of the trees and wild grasses edging onto the sand.

He’d thought Geralt was going to fuck him against the rock - but no, his intentions are more than clear when he shuffles closer, wading through the water lapping at the rock face and tugs at the tie of Jaskier’s cut-off pants with his teeth. The water swirls around Geralt’s legs, beautifully clear as the silt settles around his knees, and the salt-air ruffles over the hair hanging loose around his tanned face.

He’s _gorgeous,_ but -

“Gods, Geralt - aren’t you going to get tired?” he gasps, wide-eyed, and clings to his white hair for a lack of other handholds. He’s already getting hard, though, and it’s difficult to raise compelling concerns when his cock is throbbing lightly in the sudden constriction of his clothes. “Y-you could fuck me? Be lower down, easier.”

“Don’t want to hurt your back on the rock. I - I’d jolt you against it too much.” Geralt lifts his head to tell him that, and his heart warms until it feels like it could burst out of his chest. His own legs look slender and pale over Geralt’s shoulders, and he lets the shiver of want course through him at the sight of his lover’s face leaning against his soft inner thigh, firm hands gripping his arse and squeezing lightly. 

“You’re sweet.” Jaskier smiles down at him, tucks his wet hair behind his ear and enjoys the quick flash of his witcher’s white teeth against his tan. “The fearsome and gentle wolf.” 

Geralt shrugs minutely, careful not to jostle him. “Mm.” 

It’s too self-deprecating for Jaskier’s tastes, for their _agreement_ , and he raps his knuckles against Geralt’s head in quick reprimand before reaching down and fumbling with the string of his pants, working them down until he can get his cock out from its confines, flushed and half-hard already. 

“Oh, fuck, my love -” 

Geralt’s mouth wraps around the head of it immediately; never one for teasing, or even just easing into things. Licking underneath where it’s _so_ sensitive, he has to force himself not to yank at his lover’s hair. Flattens his palms to his chest, flutters them over Geralt’s face, mapping out angled cheekbones and the scruff over his jaw, tracing the scar slicing through his eyebrow. ‘Flapping’, as Geralt so likes to put it. 

“Don’t mind you pulling my hair.” Geralt grumbles, breath flowing over his wet shaft and forcing a rather embarrassing mewl out of him. That means, of course, that he wants it like he wants water in the oppressive midday sun. He pushes his forehead into Jaskier’s belly until he obliges, combs his fingers through the almost-dry hair at the back of his head and holds tight. 

Geralt’s head bobs between his thighs, the saltwater in his hair brushing damp over the soft inner skin. His mouth though - it’s hot and wet and perfect, silky smooth around his cock and so _thrilling_ , with him up against the rock and panting with the knowledge that they could be seen, caught with his cock out - 

Well, not _out_ exactly, but Geralt’s mouth - lovely as it may be - isn’t exactly considered a good covering. He plants one hand firm against the rock, tiny abraded holes in the surface rubbing against his fingertips. 

“Ah, Geralt -” he moans, lets his head fall back against the heat of the rock, the taste of salt on his lips and Geralt in his mouth - “oh, please, please -” 

Geralt hums, low and inquisitive around his cock, and he almost doubles over in the pleasure of it, keening and trying to resist the urge to buck his hips. The sun, even dipping in the horizon, is strong enough that he can see the warm red through closed eyes, heat blending with the flush rising to his face and chest when Geralt sucks lightly on his shaft. 

“G-Geralt! Oh, _gods_ , fuck, fuck -”

This is perfect. It’s nothing less than that, right here in the sun and the rush of rising seawater around Geralt’s scarred thighs, muscle wet and gleaming under the waning light and waxing tide. He’s never been happier than this, and the realization catches his breath tight, squeezes something in his chest and urges him to cling tighter, murmur praise and wonder and sobbing adoration down over the perfect man nestled between his thighs. Even the light spray of sea that rushes up over the rock and never touches him, held so high up by the reliable strength of Geralt’s arms under him - he loves it all. 

Geralt licks up under his sack, pulled up tight with the pleasure of the blood thrumming through his veins. Noses into the crease of his thigh, and takes his cock down to the root after one deep draw of air into his inhumanly capable lungs.

The days are calm, here. Catching plentiful, delicious fish, and hunting down small time monsters that can be let free more often than not; harvesting the seaweed and molluscs that Ciri will wrinkle her nose at unless eaten with the rough, fresh and hearty bread Jaskier can buy with half the selling price, a wink, and a line or two of song. Yennefer, of course, will trump that with parcels of layered golden pastry with dripping honey and exotic candied things he can't put name to; but their little charge will invariably descend on like a child starved, flaked and sticky over her clever fingers until licked clean.

His witcher’s nose grazes against the dark curls around the base of his cock, hollows his cheeks and gazes up at him through lashes beaded with salt and water. Inhaling, scenting him, and swallowing around his shaft with enthusiasm. His teeth sink into his lower lip when Geralt hums again, vibrating around his cock; waiting for his reaction and lifting the pitch of his low rumble when Jaskier _moans_ , chest arching as he lets himself be held and devoured. 

It’s nothing but calm and peace, the frequent visits from an amused Yen who prefers to stay away from the shores, unless Ciri pleads long enough. She’ll walk with her, then, fixing her eyes and undivided attention on the fair headed girl at her side and never on the crashing swells of the water. Like the feeling of sand on her hands hurts, and she’ll rub at her perfect collarbone when she thinks they’re otherwise occupied and no longer watching her gorgeous profile, kicking water at each other in shining arcs _._ She’ll tell them why, one day. Perhaps not here, maybe not for years upon decades - but with every story, cheerful or heartbreaking that the three of them exchange over fish and bread and wine at the fire, something lightens in each of them.

Geralt swallows it down calmly when he finishes, his breath unfairly even when he releases him; and looks up with that curve of his lips, that levity in his eyes that means genuine happiness.

He rests his head back, stone firm under his skull and hair crunching with salt, the rise and fall of his chest slowing steadily with the soft press of lips along his inner thighs. Lulling him, soothing him back down from the high while sweat trails down his chest slowly and he catches his breath to the time of gentle kisses and nips placed along his skin. 

They have their escape, here. It can’t last, he knows that well. But to see Geralt, their fierce cub, even Yennefer; all of them walk back into the world of monsters and armies and scheming humans more cruel than any beast, with at least some of the tar and grime of that life washed away in clean air and brackish water - that’s all he can ask. And he has them, for these soft and glorious moments.

Sharpened teeth linger right on the inside of his thigh, inches down from his spent cock, and golden eyes gleam up at him - _impishly _\- when his stomach sucks in with his outraged inhale.__

“Not again,” he warns, thinking already of the barely faded crescent bruises over his arse, marking him up like a claimed mate of some sort. “I swear, I am _not_ a dog’s bone -” 

Those beautiful lips don’t move from the pale give of his inner thigh, and he feels the twitch of fine muscles into a smile against the sensitivity of it - along with the traitorous twitch of his own spit-slick cock. The witcher’s mouth opens, slow as the tide, and a thousand times more amused.

“Geralt - _Geralt,_ I’m warning you - Geralt!” 

***

“Have you found what pleases you, here?” 

Geralt’s eyes have finally taken on their pretty glow, in the dimming light. Bright gold, full pupils resting on his face, white hair combed back and fragrant with oils stroked through each salt-dried strand fanned out on the pillow. His voice is rough, and Jaskier’s gut squirms in pleasure at the knowledge of why, exactly, it’s dropped below even his normal gravel. He can see the memory of that day on the mountain in his eyes, hear the lingering apology in the familiar phrase. Regrets and reconciliation in a richening history, and he can’t bring himself to begrudge any moment of what’s brought them to this shared bed. A curved line on his inner thigh throbs pleasantly, and he strokes over the thin layer of ointment to bring back the scent of yarrow in a soft drift.

“‘course I have,” he whispers, and brings his hand up to curve around the nape of his witcher’s neck.

Quietly, mindful of Ciri in the next room sleeping after a day of tearing around the trees and begging to be taught how to use a bow, of Yen doing something ‘sensitive’ with a crystal in her own much more decorated chambers. Surprisingly - or perhaps not - that turned out to be nothing particularly titillating.

It’s easy as breathing the salt air to move closer, to lay his head in against the firm plane of Geralt’s chest, his temple resting against his collarbone. To breathe in the scent of him with a nose that will never be as keen as a witcher’s, but can still indulge in the smell of sea and clean sweat and something uniquely Geralt. Taste salt and chamomile and Yen’s fancy soothing ointment, when he presses a kiss against the warm skin under his lips.

His heart can be heard too - and it sounds the furthest thing from the heartbreak he'd once lauded.

“I didn’t need to come here to find him, though.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments always adored and appreciated! ʕっ•ᴥ•ʔっ♡


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